


Abandoned AU w Notes

by orphan_account



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 12:05:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I never write anything, and this is partially why: an unfinished, abandoned, and ambitious AU for a dead ship behind a dead sea, and honestly? I wasn't even that jazzed about it.





	Abandoned AU w Notes

"No, but it's like I was saying: if you can honestly think that having the most compelling, y'know, beautiful— like, I'm not even talking of the male sex, I mean either, any, right?— the most aesthetically pleasing features of anyone is somehow less valuable than the most compatible personality— but here's the thing, though, I think, the bigger question is how, like, how would you go about training that kind of thing? Cos it's still gotta be an organic human, right? I dunno, man. Shit's just kinda off", the gentle ache of Jon's pseudo-philosophical drone could be felt like lead weighing down the group's heads with every intention of earning the well deserved groans of Spencer and Ryan.

Brendon, unfortunate and oblivious, walks in just as Ryan hurls a throwpillow from the dressing room couch in Jon's general direction, but sorely misses, just shy of his head. Still, close enough to the door that Brendon manages an ever ungraceful duck last minute, in vain however, as the pillow hits his chest full force, pushing him into the doorframe.

He looks up a moment after bracing himself, offended and confused, "What's happening?"

Ryan and Spencer exchange a pensive look when Jon answers with a hearty chuckle,"I found this article explaining the effects of the rise of Idol culture and automatons, like that's at all related or they even know what they're talking about. Robots and celebrities are not the same thing, even if it feels like it because this is meant to represent how the characters are self aware despite it appearing like they've been socialized into this corruption, but you wouldn't know that if not for the exposition here."

"Oh," Brendon's tone acts as if this explains anything, (personification), "that's interesting, I guess.", he glances a questioning look at his attacker.

"Jon is recently interested in the contemporary socioeconomic landscape of our times," Ryan explains, "and also drunk on some bizarre mix that has him giggling hymns out his ass."

"Ass-hymns," Brendon nods, more than enough explanation.  
He settles down on a foldout chair between the paralleled sofas, and rests his shoes on the table. A clutter of regret, wrappers, and ash littering the surface and staining his white vans, but he doesn't notice; he's already full of shit, anyway.

They were meant to go on for the show in less than ten minutes but the room wasn't big enough according to Zack, who proudly informed them that they were relocating, the delay wouldn't be too long. Five minutes turned to fifteen, turned to Brendon taking a quick bathroom break to find half the help gone and his bassist piss-drunk. He almost fights against the sigh, but let's it out despite himself, something guttural and disappointing about what should have been a release.

Instead, Ryan decides then would be a good idea for a smoke and drags Brendon along with him 'for the sake of having ears to take out numb frustrations on.' But also I didn't know how to transition scenes and make it look like they're close with out outright saying, yeah, they're fucking. But that's probably why you clicked this.

Outside, at the back of the building, they draw their jacket collars up and pull down the brims of inconspicuous fedoras in the February chill. Should anyone recognize them, it'd be Ryan's fault for not choosing adequate disguises. Even if Brendon fills out the jacket rather nicely, in his own opinion.

The stress of the glare from inevitable stagelights and rabid screams course through the back of his mind and down into his shoulders, tension heavy and weighing his mood down. Ryan gives him a tentative smile, like he gets it, and maybe he does in some way but Brendon would never wish his bevy (synonym for fuck-tonne) of anxiety on anyone, least of all one of the few people left that still treats him like he's just a guy. Although, if Brendon thinks about it, Ryan could probably drop poetic about autoeroticism and kittens in the same breath while shaking the president's hand. Because he's quirky and doesn't give a fuck even though no one characterizes him that way; not even me.

Brendon sinks into the brick behind him and sighs again, this time with brimstone seeping out his lungs with a little of the weight lifting soft. He turns his gaze back to Ryan who's shivering in three wool sweaters and Brendon's favourite scarf, a gift on Christmas before his family—  
(Because bden's always gotta have that tragic back story ohyea) "D'you think this is real right now?", he asks. "It depends on why you're asking.", Ryan says this like that's really the case. "I'm asking because I don't remember what it's like to leave my house without worrying about getting bombarded by crowds of people, swallowing what I've worked for like they own it. Like they own me, and I can't even do anything about it.", he laughs, but there isn't anything funny about it. "That's how you feel?", Ryan scoffs. "What do you mean?", Brendon is still unfortunate, but not as oblivious as he'd like to be. "This whole thing? The fame? The recognition? You've had a team of people puppeteering you since you started this thing. Don't act like half that panel back there is inconsequential, like these kids don't deserve to mow you down and claim your skin if they want to. You're a brand, babe, we knew that two years ago, you should now too.", the words aren't angry or insulting, it's just simple fact, sometimes Brendon is surprised that Ryan still tells the truth, that anyone tells the truth. (Attempt @ exposition, didn't work) He's quiet still, and this is one of those stolen moments of theirs, the vacancy of a parking lot and the cold between them, candid and gentle. Ryan stubs the butt of the cigarette into the snow and let's his better judgement falter for just as long as it needs to, he rests his chin in the crook of Brendon's neck, bending down. The brick and his breath brush the flush of the skin there, hot in contrast with the air outside. Brendon let's himself have this, is grateful for it, he brings his arms around Ryan and they just breathe for a while in pallid fascination. ¡ (⬆⬆ that's clever, also it's not a timeline fic ye cunt ye can't just break a scene like that) The panel isn't as full as he'd expected it to be but the the conference room is still much larger than the initial one, and it's these things that remind Brendon of their increasing popularity. When they get the go-ahead he gives the crowd (crowd) a winning smile and sits centre stage at a table with name plates made from the tears of twelve year old girls upon seeing their favourite Idol for the first time. What a wonder, he thinks. The mediator is another faceless that Ryan doesn't recognize, and wouldn't remember later if it weren't for the question he asked, but for now he sits idly by Brendon's side and let's his hand wander under the table to rest on the pampered thighs of one mister Urie, unknowingly about to be berated. (Unsubtle foreshadowing of a scene meant to contribute to "Plot" but clearly I had no idea what either those wanted to be) (*exposition*) In the meantime, a video is shown, explaining Brendon's b(r)and. His music and his face, scrutinized and sold at the same price. The voice on the speakers explains a watered down version of his childhood, what compelled him to pursue art, his relation to the other bodies on stage. Because that's just what they are to most people, his best friends, nothing more than noise to an abysmal audience. It's not as simple or optimistic as a 1:30 advert can ever really cover, Brendon thinks that's just as well, the unedited version still floating around in his head. The band signed on as a band, wrote and recorded as a band, but onstage and in public Brendon was pushed forward like he was to blame for commercial success, not that he wasn't in vast capacity, but still, it wasn't his band; it was the band. The one thing all four of them could count on to be honest, easy, where did that go? He still wonders, sometimes.


End file.
